The Price of Fire
by Acacia2978
Summary: Alana and Desdemona, one a wanderer the other a thief, haven't cared for anyone for years...until time and chance throw then into Boromir's life, and one another's. One will be left, but the other must pay the price of fire - and perhaps wish she was the
1. Through Shadows Alone

A.N. – I own nothing, least of all Lord of the Rings and my mind, and never hope to. Though it's a romance, it's rather different; it's a Boromir love triangle, and neither of the girls is a perfect elf. Actually, neither of them is either perfect or an elf! It takes place a year and half(ling) before the council of Elrond. It's book-verse for the most part, though a bit alternate-universe because of a few encounters not in the books. And yes, I have Writer's Block From Mordor on In Dreams. I promise I won't quit writing it, I'm just temporarily blocked and have yet another story besides this one clattering around in my poor head, which my sanity abandoned from overcrowding years ago. Anyway, on with the story.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Demon-Girl  
  
Of all the Valar-cursed filthy nonsense in the world, I had to get stuck in this particular pile of horsedung! Desdemona swore to herself, leaping forward faster than before, clutching her loaf of stolen bread close to her chest. Sleet pelted her like hostile eyes as she sprinted through the streets of Minas Tirith. The young woman was drenched to the bone, wearing an expression like a wet cat, and, like a wet cat, she was in a mood foul enough to kill someone for a glance.  
  
She skidded, whirling around a corner by an exceptionally tall building, and glanced over her shoulder to see if she was still pursued. Or, due to the unkempt state of her long, half-frozen black hair, attempt to see. Her eyes felt hot; she knew they were probably red. As she almost lost her balance, she looked forward again, then tossed her head back once more. This time she could tell there were no pursuers. When she looked forward again a split second later, it was just in time to avoid crashing headlong into someone who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. She slammed backwards, nearly letting go of the bread, and looked up into the apparition's face.  
  
Up into deep eyes the color that a thunderhead is when it is so deep that the sun doesn't touch its bottom, and it is impossible to tell whether it is grey or blue.  
  
"Who in all Mordor are you?" she snarled, a moment later than she usually would, and more nastily, because the blue-grey eyes had startled her and she did not like being startled.  
  
"I might better as the same question of you," her waylayer's voice replied, sardonically.  
  
She knew the last time she'd given out her name, naught good had come of it, and, cynical as she was by nature, she was not at all ready to identify herself to someone who appeared at night in pouring sleet without any warning.  
  
"That is for me to know and you to find out!" Her voice snapped like a whip, and her eyes snapped off his, instead looking him up and down, assessing him. She knew he did the same to her.  
  
He was taller than she was, by not quite a head, and wore only a light cloak over his tunic. There was ice in his clothing an in his shoulder-length hair, and on the great battle-horn at his side. He put her in mind of a timber-wolf; built more for strength than speed, but fast enough for his strength to be not just useful but lethal. His only weapon, she thought at first, was a light sword; then she was that his leather booths had pointed tips of metal extending out beyond the toes, like spurs but on the front and built in. She wouldn't like to fight him, but didn't doubt she could beat him if she had to. Eventually.  
  
That only took a second, he replied, determinedly, to her refusal, "And find out I Will. As you were in Minas Tirith and running either scared or guilty, it's my business as a guard to know who you are."  
  
He sounded calm, reasonable, and stubborn, but Desdemona was still suspicious. "My business as a guard", she thought, He does not have the look or bearing of a mere guard.  
  
"You're no guard, Sir Nosy."  
  
"You're no psychic, Lady Thief. I am a guard – I am also Steward Denethor's heir."  
  
Desdemona sputtered, glaring hard at him, but she couldn't exactly sass the man who's someday rule her homeland. She couldn't really just kill him or knock him out and have done with it, but that didn't mean she couldn't run. With a swift intake of breath and a hard bite to her lip, she lunged to the side and whirled around him.  
  
A long silver sword was at her throat, held from behind; and its wielder was far enough back that she couldn't kick him without cutting her own throat in the process of twisting to reach him. She froze.  
  
"Tell me your name and I'll let you go."  
  
"I – I'm Desdemona."  
  
"Thank you. I'm Boromir. And…" he sheathed the sword, reached down into a pouch hanging from the same belt in which the sword rested, and pulled out a handful of something that clinked, "Here's twenty silver pieces, so you won't have to steal your next few meals."  
  
He understated, and he knew it. Desdemona stared at the money in her hand. Twenty silver pieces was more than enough for a few meals, more than her parents had had when they lived, and it had just been handed her by someone who'd just held a sword at her throat. Feeling awkward about taking it, but knowing she could not force it back on him, the girl clutched her money close and loped off, vanishing quickly in the falling sleet, still with the troubling memory of those storm-colored eyes staring into hers, still with the unsettling thought that there was a person in Gondor who was even remotely a match for her.  
  
She curled up behind a few emptied crates, against a wall, sheltered somewhat from the wind and driving sleet, and closed her lids. Those blue- grey eyes… 


	2. Ice

A.N. – Thanks for reviewing! Here's the next chapter – sorry to keep you waiting. To RubyEmGypsy – keep up the terrific work on 'At Last'.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Ice  
  
Boromir knew he was insane to be out on a night like this. He could not sleep inside by a warm fire just as well as he could out here. Then again, he thought, maybe not. He still felt furious inside whenever he thought of his father; he knew if he went back to the steward's palace, he'd blow up at Denethor, and he couldn't afford to do that, for Faramir's sake. He'd years ago given up trying to get himself out of his father's favor so Denethor would make Faramir the next Steward. That only served to make Denethor to be crueler to his younger son.  
  
Boromir's latest fight with his father had been over the issue of his younger brother, stationed out in the far southeast of Gondor, practically in Mordor, in a pocket of hills that could very easily trap him. Denethor insisted it was a good defense to have a force in that place; Boromir said that, defense or no defense, it would be a shameful waste of life. At this, Denethor had gone into one of his icy furies, and Boromir knew it was time to clear out before Denethor took it out on Faramir.  
  
Then there was Mordor. The shadow had been growing lately, and explorers said that the darkness in Minas Morgul had become stronger, was starting to reach out towards Gondor. More and more orcs had come raiding across the Anduin; four times in as many months Rohan had called for help, and of course Boromir had been the one to take an army down to rescue Gondor's ally. Not that he minded that. However, he did mind his father's pigheaded insistence that there was no threat.  
  
Now the thief. Boromir loved Gondor dearly, and would have like to think that was a perfect place, but he knew better. The sight of the thin young woman in her ragged cloak – thicker than his, but torn – dashing down the street with the loaf of bread she'd stolen to live just shoved that fact in his face like a pile of horse dung.  
  
He was used to problems, big ones, but there had been too many lately and as usual when near or over his limits he'd left the Steward's Palace and refused the Tower of Guard or any inn. People annoyed him and distracted him at times like this more than the weather did. Being half- frozen was uncomfortable but not as infuriating as nosy nobles, whining servants, and maids and ladies staring at and fawning over him. Generally he like people, but at the moment, pouring sleet was more congenial.  
  
He'd wandered away from the Tower of Guard, where Desdemona had nearly collided with him, without realizing it. Annoyed at his own lapse of alertness, he tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't even realized he'd put it there, and consciously moving it only reminded him of how very cold he was, and how stupid it had been of him to totally forget his surroundings. It wasn't particularly dangerous here, but if he did it in the city he could get in the habit and do it on guard duty, out by the Anduin, near Mordor, where it would be dangerous, where he could, through carelessness, lose his companions' lives, and his own.  
  
~*~  
  
"Finally, you've returned." Denethor's voice had said more than that, spoke of welcome and relief at seeing his elder son again. It was the relief that made Boromir uneasy, and slightly angry.  
  
"Couldn't you see in your palantir that I was returning?" He'd never had any faith in the seeing-stone, but knew that sometimes his father could have visions in it of events far away.  
  
"No; there was something blocking it. I think…"  
  
"The Shadow of Minas Morgul."  
  
"Yes, or, rather, the Shadows. I've sensed them growing lately. Your brother claims he has, too."  
  
"If Faramir claims he's sensed something of the sort, I'd believe him. How does he fare?"  
  
"Your fool of a brother lost thirty good fighters last I heard from him. Apparently caught off his guard and trapped…"  
  
"Faramir caught off his guard, and I'm a Nazgul! Trapped…who could he NOT be trapped, in that box you've put him in?! How can you blame him? I could have done no better, probably worse!"  
  
"How can I blame him!? He's a fool and a wizard's pupil, with his nose buried in some book of elven-lore, no son of mine!"  
  
"He is your son, though I don't see how, as he has a heart! He's your son, and my mother's son, and he'd make a finer steward than either of us! You speak that way of my brother that way again – "  
  
"YOU speak to ME that way again and I'll have you disinherited and exiled – "  
  
"Fine! Disinherit me – " At this point, Boromir and Denethor were talking, half-yelling, on top of one another, and Boromir had never been angrier in his life. Denethor's next words, interrupting him, turned his fury to ice, though.  
  
"And order your Valar-accursed brother to invade Mordor with a band of fifty." Denethor did not raise his voice, was not red in the face, but pale, with cold eyes; Boromir knew he meant every word of what he said.  
  
He turned on his heel and stalked out of his father's hall, that had been the king's throne room, without even remembering to grab his heavy cloak.  
  
~*~  
  
Footsteps and a soft voice talking to itself yanked Boromir back to the present. Whoever it was, was close, and the storm kept him from recognizing the person, save that it was human and no orc. His storm-grey eyes narrowed as his hand tensed once more on the hilt of the light sword. 


End file.
